As they lay now in the warm, cheap bed, she watched his chest rising and falling. There was a nasty scar on it, clearly visible beneath the black, curly hair. She wanted to ask him about it but couldn't bring herself to.
"Lawrence?"
He glanced at her cautiously. This was the revered moment after coupling. A risky time. Certain conventions had to be followed. Honesty was dangerous but sincerity a must. Synonyms for commitment and love and the future -- if not those words themselves -- had ruined many rosy evenings.
But Carolyn's mind wasn't on any of those matters. She was picturing the black gun in her glove compartment and the high, frantic voice of the man who'd nearly kidnapped her.
"What do you do for a living now?" she asked him.
A pause.
"I used to sell auto parts. Well, manage a store. I'm between things right now."
"Got fired?"
"Yeah, got fired." He stretched, a bone popped. "You have a record, they'll fire you if some kid in the mailroom takes a box of staples home. You're always the number-one suspect. I came up for a job interview in Hammond today. Didn't work out."
She remembered his sullen face during the conversation on his cell phone:
"Can I ask vow a question?" he asked.
"Sure. I'm married, no children. I love sex and I drink too much. Anything else?"
"Why didn't you want to call the cops?"
But instead of answering she asked, "Why didn't you get shook back there?"
He shrugged those great shoulders again. "I've had guns pointed at me before. I can tell when somebody's going to use a piece and when he's not. Oh, that kid'd been a pro, I'd've said so long, lady, and hoped the state troopers got to you before it was too late."
"Have you ever killed anybody?"
The hesitation was his answer.
"No more questions from you till you answer mine," he said. "Why no cops?"
"Because I have a business proposition for you."
"What, you need some auto parts?"
"No, I want you to murder my husband."
*
"Divorce him," Lawrence said. "That's what they make lawyers for."
"He's worth a lot of money."
"If he's cheating, you'll get half. Maybe more."
"Well..."
"Oh. He's not the only guilty party." Lawrence laughed and gestured toward the bed they were lying in. "Guess not. Who cheated first?"
"He did." Then she added, "Well, he got caught first."
"Tough luck. But I'm not a hit man. I never was."
"What can I say to convince you?"
"Nothing. Not. A. Thing."
"What can I do to convince you?" She moved her hands along his body, pinched his thigh playfully.
He laughed.
He stopped smiling when she asked, "Fifty thousand?"
But after a moment: "I've done my time. I didn't like it."
"A hundred?"
The hesitation was probably only a millisecond but to Carolyn it was plenty long enough.
Lawrence said, "I don't think so."
"I don't think -- that's not the same as no."
"It's not easy killing somebody. Well, matter of fact, that part is easy. But getting away's tricky. That's the almost-impossible part."
As she often did in the meetings she ran at the hospital -- when the people who worked for her would come up with excuses for not having their reports or proposals in on time -- Carolyn said, "I'm hearing almost. I'm hearing tricky. But all that tells me is it's doable."
"You ever threatened him?"
She shrugged. "I found him with his girlfriend once at the mall. I lost it. I said I'd kill them both... No, I think I said they'd wish they were dead by the time I got through with them."
"Ouch."
"I don't think anybody heard me."
"Well," he said slowly, like a doctor formulating an opinion. "You've got a reason to kill him. That's a problem. It means you've got to find a fall guy. You've got to make it look like it's more likely somebody else committed the crime than you, even if you have a motive. We need --"
"Another suspect?"
"Yeah."
She smiled and eased her breasts against him. "Like a carjacker. Or a mugger?"
"Sure." His eyes swung toward the gas station. He nodded. "That kid, we've got his gun..."
Stan had several guns. Carolyn remembered the forms he'd had to fill out to buy them; she knew gun shops kept good records of ownership. She mentioned this now.
"Might be stolen, might not be his," Lawrence said.
"It'd have his fingerprints on it."
"We'd have to wipe it -- you touched it, remember?" But then he laughed.
"What?"
"Well, even if we wiped the gun, the bullets'd still have his prints on them."
She nuzzled against his neck.
"But," Lawrence added, "he's just a carjacker. You really want to bring him down on a murder charge?"
"He was going to rape me," she pointed out. "Maybe kill me. Look at it like this: We'll be doing a good deed, getting him put away before he hurts someone."
"A hundred thousand?" Lawrence gazed up at the ceiling. "You know, those social workers and counselors... in prison, I mean? They'd ask about all sorts of crazy stuff. What appealed to me about antisocial behavior? What was I angry about? Was my childhood conflicted?" He laughed. "They didn't like my answers. I told 'em I could make five thousand a day just to break some poor schmuck's arm. Who the hell wouldn't want a job like that?"
"Well, here's a chance for your nest egg." She kissed his ear and whispered the words that always thrilled her, "Tax free."
He thought for a moment. "We'd have to set it up carefully. Maybe we find the motel where he's meeting his girlfriend --"
"I know it. They always go to the same place."
"How does it work?" He laughed. "I was married for ten years and I never had an affair. Would she leave the place first? Or him?"
"She'd leave first. He'd wait, pay for the room."
"Okay, after he pays he gets in the car. I'm there waiting for him."
"And you shoot him?"
Lawrence laughed. "In a motel parking lot? With people around? I don't think so. No, I'll force him to drive me someplace deserted. Do it there. Make it look like we fought and I shot him. Then I panicked and jumped out of the car and ran. I'll drop the gun on the way. You follow and pick me up... When should we do it? Sooner's better. I need the money bad. I owe big-time on that Lincoln."
"Stan usually goes to see her on Tuesday and Thursday nights."
"Today's Tuesday," he said.
She nodded. "That's where he is now."
"Well, day after tomorrow. Sure. It's a good setup. We've got a murder weapon that can't be traced to us, a good motive. And a fall guy."
Carolyn rolled atop Lawrence once more, straddled him, feeling his interest in her Pamela Anderson body rapidly reviving. And she thought: We sure do have a fall guy, Lawrence. You. An ex-con out of work, a man with a great motive to rob Stan -- and kill him in the process.
"I think it'll work," he said.
"I think it will too," Carolyn said. And started to chew on his lower lip.
*
Sensuous curves...
The car gently rocking back and forth. It was Thursday, another overcast spring evening, and Carolyn was wearing a long-sleeved navy blouse and a pleated skirt that ended halfway between knee and ankle. A couple of the assistants in the hospital office had looked at her with surprise. No cleavage today, no thigh, no straining buttons. The AquaNet had remained capped and her hair was pulled back in a plain ponytail. She'd decided that after she made the anonymous call to the police reporting one man shooting another in a green Cadillac, she'd have to speed back home and prepare to be the demure, innocent widow. A costume change might be hard to manage in time.
She found herself in an odd state: nearly aroused. The sashaying of the car, the cool air on her skin. And, she had to admit, the
thought of Stan dying turned her on.
So did getting her hands on his money. He was such a miser. He wouldn't even buy her the damn Lexus. It had to be a lease.
Thinking about Lawrence too.
Such a great lover.
But a better fall guy.
Too bad, Larry.
It wouldn't be easy, though. She couldn't call the cops from the car phone, of course; there'd be a record of the call. So she decided to pick the place for the hit herself. This would make sense to Larry -- she was the native; he wouldn't know the area. She'd suggest that he drive Stan to Cardiff Falls. There, the county road stretched through a steep valley. A mile up the road was a convenience store with two telephones outside.
She'd follow them and after Larry'd killed Stan and gone to meet her she'd slip out of her car and flatten the rear tire of Stan's Cadillac with the kitchen knife she had in her purse (she'd let the air out of the spare tire that morning). Then she'd leave Lawrence there and speed to the store, make the call to the cops and race home. Lawrence'd be trapped in the valley. It would take him forty minutes to get out on foot; the cops would be there in minutes.
Perfect.
Her thoughts segued again to the Heritage Hotel, where her husband was right at the moment.
She pictured them in bed together.
Pictured his girlfriend: Loretta Samples... Lorrie... an unremarkable woman. Blonde, boringly pretty. When Carolyn had stalked them to the mall, Lorrie was wearing a ludicrous black floppy hat and was walking close to Stan with his elbow seated hard against her chest. They'd braked to a fast stop in front of the banshee wife. Oh, had Carolyn enjoyed that little scene.
Lor-rie...
What were they doing at this minute? Carolyn wondered, gripping the Lexus's steering wheel so hard her fingers cramped. Drinking wine? Was he kissing her feet? Lying on top of her and hooking his longish brown hair behind his ears?
Then Lawrence's motel loomed and she braked hard. She pulled past it, like they'd agreed, and he stepped out from behind a row of bushes and climbed into the car before it stopped moving.
"Go," he said.
She sped back onto the road.
She'd expected that he'd be dressed in, well, killer clothes. Like a commando, maybe. At least a black sweater and jeans, or something. But he was just wearing one of his business suits under the elaborate trench coat. His tie was printed with tiny yellow fish. Ugly, tasteless. For some reason this made her feel better about turning him in.
"You're sure he's at the hotel?"
"He called and said he was going to be late for dinner. He had a meeting with Bill Mathiesson."
"And he doesn't?"
"Not unless it's in London, which is where Bill is this week. According to his office."
Lawrence gave a bitter laugh. "You gonna lie, lie smart." He looked at his watch. "What do you know about his girlfriend?"
Another heat flash of jealousy coursed through her. "She's got small boobs and needs a nose job."
"She married too?"
"Yeah. She's just like Stan. Rich bitch. Inherited daddy's money and thinks she can get away with anything. They deserve each other."
"Well, let's hope she leaves the room first. Witnesses're no good." He pulled on tight-fitting cotton work gloves.
"Don't you wear rubber gloves?"
"No," he said. "Cloth is better. No fingerprints inside. To trace you to the gloves."
"Oh." She supposed that Lawrence Anderson Smith, aka the Lincoln Man, aka the Lovemaker, had been very good at collecting debts.
He opened the glove compartment and took out the pistol.
Carolyn glanced at it. They all looked alike to her. Black, dangerous.
He clicked it open. She saw there were six bullets in the six chambers. Lawrence asked, "Did you wipe it?"
"No," she said. "I don't know how."
He laughed. "You just... wipe it." He pulled a Kleenex from the box on her dashboard and carefully wiped the metal.
"There," she said. "There it is."
Ahead of them was the hotel. The red Vacancy light pulsed unappealingly. It was a seedy place. (Carolyn insisted that her lovers take her to bed-and-breakfasts. Or at least the Hyatt.)
She parked on the street, with a view of the parking lot. There was Stan's Cadillac. She wondered which car was Lorries.
"Oh, there's a good place I know to do it," she said, as if she'd just thought of the idea. "Cardiff Falls, Route Fifty-eight. It's about five miles from here. It's real deserted. Just keep going on Maple Branch about a mile to the Mobil station then turn left. That'll be Route Fifty-eight."
"Good." He nodded then said, "You stay right here. I'm going to hide in the bushes. I'll get him in the Caddie and drive there, find a place by the side of the road. You follow us."
Carolyn took a deep breath. "Okay."
"Afterwards, you drop me at my hotel and go home. When he doesn't show up tonight, call the cops. Remember, don't overact when you find out what happened. It's better to look stunned than hysterical. Sort of zoned out."
"Stunned not hysterical." Carolyn nodded.
Then he leaned forward and gripped her neck hard, pulled her lips to his. She kissed back, just as hard. She enjoyed a kinky little shiver, feeling the gloves on her neck. Maybe she'd have to play dress-up sometime with Don. Or some other lover. Maybe leather would be fun...
He released her and she looked into his eyes. "Good luck," she said.
He climbed out, crouched beside the car, looked around. The street was deserted. Still hunched over, he ran through a wedge of shadow beside the hotel and disappeared behind a row of boxwood.
Carolyn laid her head against the leather rest and clicked on Lite FM.
Now, finally, the nervousness descended like a spray of cold rain. The horror of the evening unfurled within her and her hands began to quiver.
What'm I doing? she wondered.
The answer came to her: what I should've done a long time ago. Suddenly her uneasiness turned to rage. I hate these damn clothes, I want to be dressed up, I want to be going out for nice wine and martinis, I want that idiot Stan out of my life, I want to get the whole thing over. I want --
Two sharp cracks from the hotel.
Sitting forward, staring into the parking lot at Stan's Cadillac.
Two more bangs. They sounded like gunshots.
Lights went on in some of the hotel windows.
Carolyn felt the fear inside her like a cold stone.
No, no. They were just backfires. That's all. She scanned the parking lot. More lights came on. Doors opened. Several people stepped onto balconies, looking around.
Then there was motion to her right. She glanced toward it.
Lawrence stood in the shadows. His eyes were wide; on his face, a look of terror. Was he holding his stomach? Had he been shot? She couldn't tell.
"What?" Carolyn screamed.
He looked around, in panic, then gestured her frantically to leave. Mouthing, "Go... go. Get home fast." He disappeared back into the bushes.
Had a guard or off-duty cop seen him with the gun? Did Stan have a gun with him?
Two people stepped from the hotel managers office, a fat woman in a turquoise jumpsuit and a skinny man wearing a short-sleeved white shirt. They looked around the U-shaped building, said something to each other, then listened to some of the people on the balconies and the sidewalk in front of the ground-floor rooms. Carolyn couldn't tell what they were saying.
She looked back toward where Lawrence had whispered his warning. No sign of him.
Time to go, she thought. This is trouble.
She floored the accelerator.
But as the car sped forward she heard a soft pop and the whup whup whup of a tire going flat.
No! Not now! Please...
She kept going. The hotel guests and the couple from the manager's office were staring at the Lexus as it swerved down the street. Then the rubber fell off the rim of the flat rear tire and the car jolted to a stop agai
nst the curb.
"Damn! Damn, damn!" she screamed, slamming her fist on the steering wheel.
In the reafview mirror, flashing lights -- a police car was speeding toward the hotel.
No, no...
The young officers glanced at her car but passed it by and parked up the street. They trotted to the crowd of guests by the manager's office. Several of them pointed to a room on the first floor and the cops hurried to it.
Two other squad cars showed up and then a boxy ambulance.
Run or stay?
Hell, they can trace my car. It'd seem more suspicious if she ran.
I'll come up with a story. My husband called me and asked for a ride.
My husband wanted me to meet him here...
I happened to see my husband's car...
The cops knocked on the door to room 103 and, when there was no answer, the skinny man in the white shirt unlocked the door. He stood back as the cops, their guns drawn, pushed inside.
One stepped back outside and spoke to the ambulance attendants. They walked inside slowly. If it was Stan's room, and if Stan was inside, Carolyn guessed he was dead.
But what had happened? What --
A rapping on her car window. She screamed and turned around. A large cop was standing beside her. She stared at him, her mouth open.
"Miss, could you move your car?" asked the beefy crew-cut cop politely.
"I -- The tire. It's flat."
"Is something wrong, ma'am?"
"No. Nothing's wrong. I just... It's just that I had a flat tire."
"Could I see your license and registration, please?"
"Why?"
"Please? Your license and registration."
"Well, sure," she said, staring at him, his badge, his walkie-talkie. She didn't move.
A moment passed. "Now."
"Ma'am, you're acting kind of strange. I'd like to ask you to step out of your vehicle."
"Well, now, Officer..." She smiled and leaned toward him, easing her arms together. Only after a glance at his perplexed face did she realize that the attention-getting valley between her breasts was hidden by her conservative blue blouse.
She climbed out of the car, handed him the documents.
"You been drinking?"
"No, Officer. Well, I had one beer a couple of hours ago. Well, two."
"I see."
Then she glanced at the rear wheel, frowning. It looked as if somebody had put a trap under the tire -- a piece of wood with a couple of nails hammered through it.
The cop noticed her gaze. "Damn kids. They do that sometimes for pranks. Throw 'em in the road. Think it's funny. This your current address?" Nodding at her license.